


Carve a Name

by Artistic_Alex



Category: South Park
Genre: Depression, Dissociation, Gen, Hopeful, M/M, Plans, Sad and Sweet, Self Harm, Suicide, Whump, Writer Projecting, Writer's Block, positive affirmations, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:48:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artistic_Alex/pseuds/Artistic_Alex
Summary: Butters can’t remember the last time a day was different. It’s an endless cycle of pain he causes. Can someone pull him out of that cycle?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Carve a Name

**Author's Note:**

> Name based off: https://youtu.be/qxQy2tgXL9E

Butters flinched as his hand wandered to the bruise spreading across the high parts of his stomach. His ribs were sore, the area feeling hot to the touch and his skin feeling as if it were on fire with each press of his fingers.

The skin was already bruising, the area turning a deep shade of red, soon to become a purplish blue that will spread like a stain on his chest for gosh knows how long this time. It’s almost a pulsing pain, like he could feel his heart beat in it if he really tried hard enough, he doesn’t want to think of that so instead he thinks about getting an ice pack, that it might ease the pain and let the blood spread out.

He shoots down the idea immediately. He couldn’t, his dad might still be awake.

He traces it lightly in the mirror, wincing when he presses into a spot that happens to be much more sore than the rest. He puts a hand over his mouth to hide the whimper he nearly lets out. The tears filling his eyes felt like burning acid as he refused to let them fall, the dried tear tracks on his face he’s yet to wipe still feeling tacky.

His father wanted him to be a man. Men don’t cry, that’s why this happened.

He was acting all sore lately. He wasn’t sure why, but he’s been so down. Others haven’t noticed, atleast, not really, but his dad sure did. 

Things have always been rather poor with his father. It didn’t seem like his dad really liked him, but he refused to think of it like that even when it got really bad. Tough love is what he’d rather call it, but either way, whatever it was, it was starting to get to him. It suddenly became all he could think about at school. After his grades started to noticeably tank and Stephen was furious.

It was a normal argument at first, not really an argument at all, Butters had just stood and listened to his father's rant about his stupidity affecting not only him, but his father's credibility. It wasn’t until Butters started blubbering out apologies wildly that it turned into another physical punishment that left him bruised and whimpering like a child.

His father hadn’t raised a pussy, or so he said. He hadn’t raised an ungrateful little bitch who cried every time they were confronted.

Times like this made him wish it was only groundings he was given like his father gave him before.

His eyes slowly returned to the mirror, his sky blue irises shining in the gentle moonlight seeping through the window, reflecting carefully against his teary eyes.

He looked disheveled. Pathetic.

A sudden urge to hit himself over took him as his expression turned bitter, his hands grabbing onto his arm, sinking his short bitten nails into the pale skin. He felt like screaming, holding it in made him feel like veins were going to pop out of his forehead before he brought his hands up to his hair instead.

Luckily, their were only faint crescents in his arms, his nails being much too short to do real damage from a simple squeeze, but the sudden realization unnerves him as he untangles his fingers from his bleach blond hair.

It’s been leading to this, hasn’t it?

He wraps his arms around himself as he heads back into his room, feeling ill when he sits down on his bed.

What was the point of this routine?

It wasn’t a nightly thing, surely, but he’s done this enough now to realize it’s a routine. 

He’d hide in his room until dark, sneak to the bathroom when he felt it was safe, and just looks at himself. To just bask in his messy state of skewed hair and painful remnants of beatings, but now with the added sense of guilt and thoughts of stabbing over the dark bruises plaguing his skin. He’d debate inflicting that same pain to himself before collapsing back onto his bed in his room. From that point he’d either stay awake the rest of the night and feel a woozy tiredness for the day or be forced to stare at the ceiling until his eyes fell closed.

Tonight felt different. He couldn’t tell how, but it did.

Suddenly he’s sitting up, staring out his window and into the sky. It was dark, nothing else in sight besides the gentle snowfall and the shimmering reflecting on each flake from the street lights. His eyes slowly adjust to the brights lights that gleamed carefully over the snow.

His eyes slowly look to the ground where the snow had been collecting into soft, powdery piles. Usually watching the snow like this would calm him, but for some reason tonight it felt as chaotic as him, the soft falling trails appearing to him like harsh falling hail. He squints his eyes as he wonders what would happen if he fell from the window at this height. It would break something, he’s sure, at the least sprain his ankle, but what if he fell out… Upside down? Could you die from a broken neck? Maybe he could hit his head and-

He felt bile rise in his throat as he pushes himself away from the window and scatters back to his bed, shaking away the thoughts he just had.

He was fine. Just a little mental blunder, he attempts to convince himself. This was the first and last time he thought about something like that. His parents would be awfully sore if they had to clean up blood off the yard because of his sick curiosity.

He tries to forget that these had been thoughts in his minds forefront for months now as he slowly releases his chin from him palm.

He was just a little upset at his dad was all. 

Maybe he should just go to bed. The longer he’s awake the worse he seems to feel.

He contemplates it for a moment longer before letting out a deep and long sigh.

Maybe… Maybe he needed a plan...

*****

Kenny stands against the school wall as another cold breeze passes by, only shivering slightly, he pulls out a cigarette pack that he stole from his parents room and lights it up, knowing the school yard teacher wouldn’t care enough to report him.

He breathes it in, still hating the terrible taste, but only using it now to keep warm in this damn cold town. He sucks in, letting the nicotine fill his lungs.

Kenny puts out his cigarette, harshly pushing it again the cold and icy wall of the school, letting himself lean back as he watched Butters approach him, a large smile on the younger boys scarred face. He takes out another, preparing for the much too enthusiastic conversation to be had much too early in the morning.

“Heya Ken!” He says, taking place in front of the teen.

“Sup Butters.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Need somethin’?” Butters only shakes his head. “Nah. You just looked lonely is all. Thought you could use some company.” 

Kenny laughs lowly. “Yeah. Well, being alone today is better than being with the guys. Kyles got a stick up his ass and of course Cartman has to twist it just to piss him off. Stan’s just around I guess.” He exhales loudly. “Same old same old, huh?”

“I saw Eric causin’ some stirrup earlier, he seemed mighty pissed off, I’d say.”

“When isn’t he?” He laughed, “I love Cartman like a brother but if I ever got a chance to murder him and get away with it, I wouldn’t be standing here waiting around.”

Butters laughs uncomfortably, creating a tension Kenny chooses to ignore. 

Butters takes a moment to lean against the wall as well, making a noise of uncomfort as his back touches the cold, brick wall. 

Kenny takes this opportunity to pull out another cigarette, placing it between his fingers before offering it to his distant friend.

“Want one? Don’t got many but… You seem tense.” 

Butters looks almost shocked at the offer as his eyes twitch. “Oh, I, uh, no thanks. I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Uh, yeah. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Alright. Won’t force you.”

He puts it away, taking one last puff of his own before dropping it to the snow with a sudden sizzle of the embers meeting the December snow.

“So.” He says, standing up more properly now. “We haven’t talked in a bit.” 

Butters frowns. “Yeah, I’m awful sorry. I’ve been real busy, homework and bein’ grounded all the time…”

“Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.” Kenny says, stuffing his partially gloves hands in his pockets.

He hated this time of year.

It was cold, and damp. The sun way too bright and the ground much to wet, and god forbid it snowed enough to make up for it. And of course, Santa hates poor people. It was always up to him to supply enough for Karen to be happy, It never bothered him of course, it just because a stressful nuance.

Kenny shakes his head of the thought, sighing awkwardly.

“Wanna get out of here?” He asks. “It’s stiff, pretty shitty outside. We could just leave.”

Butters furrows his brows. “Leave? I can’t, my parents would be awfully sore if I skipped. I’m already grounded enough.”

Kenny smirks and tilts his head to the teacher “watching” the high school class stand awkwardly on the playground. She appeared to be engulfed in an important cartoon card game on her phone, the sounds could loudly be heard from where they stood.

“She’s not paying attention. I’ll cover for you if we get in trouble, alright?”

“I don’t know, Ken…” He says, nervously rubbing his hands together in a strange habit.

“Alright, suit yourself.” 

Just as Kenny begins to walk away, Butters has second thoughts, reaching out. He immediately takes his hand back. Twisting his wrist within the palm of his hand as he feels his anxiety rise.

He wasn’t cool enough to join Kenny.

Right as the boy continued to walk, an object falls from him pocket and onto the snow.

Butters walks up to it, picking it up carefully before preparing to call out.

“Kenny, you-“ he freezes, realizing what it was.

A pocket knife. 

“What’d you say?” Kenny asks, turning around.

“N-nothing Ken. Have fun.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow before quickly brushing it off, hopping over the short fence blocking the high school playground.

Butters swallows thickly as he looks at it, before quickly stuffing it into his pocket.

He’s a bad person, he knows for sure.

*****

“Sup gaywad.” Cartman greets as he sits down.

“Do ya have to call me that everyday, Eric?” Butters asked, but still makes room regardless of greeting.

“Of course. I would never withhold a true statement.” He says, raising a hand as he has one on his chest. “Scouts honor.”

“Oh shut up, fat ass, you were never a scout.”

“Fuckin’ was too, Jew, I can prove it!” Cartman attempts to do a scout salute but instead instead heils. 

“That’s not a scout salute, that’s a solute Hitler used!”

“Same difference.” 

Butters sighs, taking a slow bite of his pizza. Today was like any other day. Everyday seemed to similar now. All of it felt like Deja vu.

“Yo Butters, what crawled up your ass? You’re even more depressing than Stan now.” 

“Fuck you, Cartman.” Stan says between a bite of his sandwich.

“I guess I’m just a bit sore…”

“Literally or figuratively?” Kyle asks.

_ Both…  _ Butters thinks to himself.

“Guess I’m just a bit down in the pits, fellas. Don’t mind me.”

“Kinda like how Kyle was in his moms “pits” of his mom last night, huh Kyle?” 

“Cartman I swear to the ever loving Jesus that-“

Butters begins to tune them out. He registers people talking, and his food being taken, though he doesn’t mind, and the bell ring. Suddenly he’s in class, then home.

Same old day.

He goes to bed sore again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if I projected too much, but I relate to Butters a lot.


End file.
